By the end of Semester I of my first collegiate year, I knew I hated being at my university. Now, this may sound like the ungrateful complaints of a student who is unmotivated and uninvolved. The type of student who misses a week's worth of classes and continues to blame their professor for their failing grade. However, this was not me. On campus, I was the student who wanted to put her hands on everything: from leadership opportunities to fundraisers, to creating a club of her own. On campus, I had three jobs that ranged from greeting prospective students to preparing biology laboratories. I was the student who maintained good grades that made professors and peers alike say, “Wow, you’re so busy, yet you do so well!” I was a perfectionist at all costs, unwaveringly hard on myself in hopes of academic validation. Despite this, my over-involvement and over-commitment was just a façade for my declining mental health. On campus, I felt lonely, isolated, and ignored by almost everyone around me. On a campus with only 4,000 undergraduate students, I was the girl who knew everyone but never known herself. I became depressed, morphing into the student who did care about her academics--I didn’t care about anything at all. But wasn't I supposed to be successful? Wasn't I supposed to be the girl who had gotten into a competitive program? Wasn't I supposed to make my parents proud? Who was that girl? Who was I? Was it worth keeping either alive? I cried for days, unable to get out of bed and take care of my basic needs. I'd had enough. On a cold, bitter day in October, I decided my loneliness was overwhelming and all-consuming, and I attempted to take my own life. Fortunately, the attempt was unsuccessful. The next day, I was admitted to a Behavioral Health Center for eight days. During these eight days, I fought for my life all hours of the day, fluctuating between surges of confidence and anxiety. Eventually, I began to find value in my happiness, and after copious time and thought, I concluded: my degree and success do not matter if I do not live to witness it. As soon as I was discharged, I began to research the transfer process. I learned that I want my medical career to be more than seeing people for 15 minutes and prescribing them medication. I wanted to make connections. I wanted to touch people’s hearts. I wanted to be a trusted provider. I want to be an Occupational Therapist. Despite my revelation and the newfound value I placed in myself, finances are making it difficult to act on my ambitions. Despite receiving sufficient merit scholarships at my first college, many institutions are not as generous to transfer students and give out little to no scholarships. In addition to myself, my parents are also financing college for my twin brother simultaneously. Because of this, I am at a crossroads where I have to choose between a college experience that I enjoy and an affordable degree. With the help of this scholarship, I could have the opportunity to pursue both. I want to look back on my college years knowing that I was happy and successful. I know that I have the ambition, I have the intelligence, and I have the skill to obtain anything that I want from life. I just need the resources to get there.

"Hey, how are you doing? Good, good. So, what brings you in today?" When I visit my primary care doctor every year, this is the only phrase I hear that inquires about my mental health. As a black child who grew up struggling with mental illness, I never understood why mental health is so distinct from physical health. As I wonder this, the world says, "Oh my gosh, I never knew they were depressed! They always seemed so happy!" Do you see it? Do you see how the world, specifically providers, have been setting mental wellness up for failure while throwing arms up and saying, "Well, there's no way to combat mental health"? So, I say this: The first step to making mental health more accessible is simple. Ask. My ultimate career goal is to become a Doctor of Occupational Therapy. Despite not working in a field that directly connects with mental health care, I plan to make contributions simply by forming genuine relationships with patients by truly listening to them. As someone who has struggled with mental illness in the past, I think the world misunderstands how significant the question, "How are you really?" is. This is because the first step to making individuals struggling with their mental well-being feel comfortable is destigmatizing mental illness. A psychiatry office should be the last place a patient is asked about their mental health. It starts with us. It starts with me. So, I'll ask: "How are you," "Really?"

By the end of my first semester, I knew college was going to kill me. Now, this may sound like the exaggeration of a subpar student. The student who misses a week's worth of classes and continues to blame their professor for their failing grade. However, this was not me. On campus, I was the student who wanted to put her hands on everything: from leadership opportunities to fundraisers, to creating a club of her own. I was the student who maintained good grades that made professors and peers alike say, “Wow, you’re so busy, yet you do so well!” Nevertheless, my over-involvement was just a façade for my declining mental health. In addition to being the "over-achieving" student, I, unknowingly to those around me, was the student who had been struggling with her mental health since middle school--collecting diagnoses, attempts, and medicine as if they were playing cards that children traded at recess. I was lonely, isolated, and angry at the world for the way I experienced it. As everyone enjoyed the warm sun on their face, I felt as if a thundercloud followed me, soaking every bit of joy and energy that I possibly had. On a campus with 4,000 undergraduate students, I was the girl who knew everyone but never was known, herself. I became depressed, becoming the student who did not care about her academics--I didn’t care about anything at all. My feet dragged when I walked, every step feeling like thousands of needles piercing me, as if to say, "Why are you trying?", "Why do you keep going?", "Give up". Usually, I was able to fight these emotions by envisioning the future or spending more time on self-care, but by October of my sophomore year, these words struck deeper. I had been fighting for years: I was exhausted trying to keep myself alive. But wasn't I supposed to be successful? Wasn't I supposed to be the girl who had gotten into a competitive program? Wasn't I supposed to make my parents proud? Who was that girl? Who was I? Was it worth keeping either alive? I cried for days, unable to get out of bed and take care of my basic needs. I'd had enough. On a cold, bitter day in October, I decided my loneliness was overwhelming and all-consuming, and I attempted to take my own life. Fortunately, the attempt was unsuccessful. The next day, I was admitted to a Behavioral Health Center for eight days. During these eight days, I fought for my life all hours of the day, fluctuating between surges of confidence and anxiety. Eventually, I began to find value in my happiness, and after copious time and thought, I concluded: my degree and success do not matter if I do not live to witness it. Upon release, I made the difficult decision to withdraw from the semester. I vowed that I would use the time to teach myself that it's okay to take breaks and indulge in what makes life sweet, rather than run myself into the ground trying to collect praise from others. I needed to learn to love being me. Despite progress in treatment, I want to make it clear that I am not better. I know it will take me years to reach a place of holistic mental health, but I am ecstatic to start this new journey of prioritizing my happiness while still working towards my goals. I know that I will achieve the same success that I once had. My ambition will not let me fail and my happiness will make me prosper.

By the end of my first semester, I knew college was going to kill me. Now, this may sound like the exaggeration of a subpar student. The student who misses a week's worth of classes and continues to blame their professor for their failing grade. However, this was not me. On campus, I was the student who wanted to put her hands on everything: from leadership opportunities to fundraisers, to creating a club of her own. I was the student who maintained good grades that made professors and peers alike say, “Wow, you’re so busy, yet you do so well!” Nevertheless, my over-involvement was just a façade for my declining mental health. In addition to being the "over-achieving" student, I, unknowingly to those around me, was the student who had been struggling with her mental health since middle school--collecting diagnoses, attempts, and medicine as if they were playing cards that children traded at recess. I was lonely, isolated, and angry at the world for the way I experienced it. As everyone enjoyed the warm sun on their face, I felt as if a thundercloud followed me, soaking every bit of joy and energy that I possibly had. On a campus with 4,000 undergraduate students, I was the girl who knew everyone but never was known, herself. I became depressed, becoming the student who did not care about her academics--I didn’t care about anything at all. My feet dragged when I walked, every step feeling like thousands of needles piercing me, as if to say, "Why are you trying?", "Why do you keep going?", "Give up". Usually, I was able to fight these emotions by envisioning the future or spending more time on self-care, but by October of my sophomore year, these words struck deeper. I had been fighting for years: I was exhausted trying to keep myself alive. But wasn't I supposed to be successful? Wasn't I supposed to be the girl who had gotten into a competitive program? Wasn't I supposed to make my parents proud? Who was that girl? Who was I? Was it worth keeping either alive? I cried for days, unable to get out of bed and take care of my basic needs. I'd had enough. On a cold, bitter day in October, I decided my loneliness was overwhelming and all-consuming, and I attempted to take my own life. Fortunately, the attempt was unsuccessful. The next day, I was admitted to a Behavioral Health Center for eight days. During these eight days, I fought for my life all hours of the day, fluctuating between surges of confidence and anxiety. Eventually, I began to find value in my happiness, and after copious time and thought, I concluded: my degree and success do not matter if I do not live to witness it. Upon release, I made the difficult decision to withdraw from the semester. I vowed that I would use the time to teach myself that it's okay to take breaks and indulge in what makes life sweet, rather than run myself into the ground trying to collect praise from others. I needed to learn to love being me. Despite progress in treatment, I want to make it clear that I am not better. I know it will take me years to reach a place of holistic mental health, but I am ecstatic to start this new journey of prioritizing my happiness while still working towards my goals. I know that I will achieve the same success that I once had. My ambition will not let me fail and my happiness will make me prosper.

By the end of my first semester, I knew college was going to kill me. Now, this may sound like the exaggeration of a subpar student. The student who misses a week's worth of classes and continues to blame their professor for their failing grade. However, this was not me. On campus, I was the student who wanted to put her hands on everything: from leadership opportunities to fundraisers, to creating a club of her own. I was the student who maintained good grades that made professors and peers alike say, “Wow, you’re so busy, yet you do so well!” Nevertheless, my over-involvement was just a façade for my declining mental health. In addition to being the "over-achieving" student, I, unknowingly to those around me, was the student who had been struggling with her mental health since middle school--collecting diagnoses, attempts, and medicine as if they were playing cards that children traded at recess. I was lonely, isolated, and angry at the world for the way I experienced it. As everyone enjoyed the warm sun on their face, I felt as if a thundercloud followed me, soaking every bit of joy and energy that I possibly had. On a campus with 4,000 undergraduate students, I was the girl who knew everyone but never known herself. I became depressed, becoming the student who did not care about her academics--I didn’t care about anything at all. My feet dragged when I walked, every step feeling like thousands of needles piercing me, as if to say, "Why are you trying?", "Why do you keep going?", "Give up". Usually, I was able to fight these emotions by envisioning the future or spending more time on self-care, but by October of my sophomore year, these words struck deeper. I had been fighting for years: I was exhausted trying to keep myself alive. But wasn't I supposed to be successful? Wasn't I supposed to be the girl who had gotten into a competitive program? Wasn't I supposed to make my parents proud? Who was that girl? Who was I? Was it worth keeping either alive? I cried for days, unable to get out of bed and take care of my basic needs. I'd had enough. On a cold, bitter day in October, I decided my loneliness was overwhelming and all-consuming, and I attempted to take my own life. Fortunately, the attempt was unsuccessful. The next day, I was admitted to a Behavioral Health Center for eight days. During these eight days, I fought for my life all hours of the day, fluctuating between surges of confidence and anxiety. Eventually, I began to find value in my happiness, and after copious time and thought, I concluded: my degree and success do not matter if I do not live to witness it. Upon release, I made the difficult decision to withdraw from the semester. I vowed that I would use the time to teach myself that it's okay to take breaks and indulge in what makes life sweet, rather than run myself into the ground trying to collect praise from others. I needed to learn to love being me. Despite treatment progress, I want to make it clear that I am not better. I know it will take me years to reach a place of holistic mental health, but I am ecstatic to start this new journey of prioritizing my happiness while still working towards my goals. I know that I will achieve the same success that I once had. My ambition will not let me fail and my happiness will make me prosper.